Funeral in Blue - Anne Perry [123]
“Mr. Thorpe?” Pendreigh frowned. “It is surely an easy question. Did you maintain the same high standards as you always have in keeping Dr. Beck in your employ and allowing him to operate on the sick and vulnerable men and women who came to your hospital for help . . . or did you, for some personal reason, allow a man you did not trust to keep such a position?”
“No! Of course I didn’t!” Thorpe said, then instantly realized he had been forced into committing himself. He flushed dark red.
“Thank you,” Pendreigh accepted, moving backwards and indicating that Mills might now question the witness.
Mills stood up, dapper and confident. He opened his mouth to speak to Thorpe.
Hester froze. Thorpe was bursting to undo what he had said, his eyes pleading with Mills somehow to create the chance for him.
The entire room was silent. If only it mattered as much as it seemed to. Whatever Thorpe said would make little real difference. It was emotional; the facts were not touched.
“Mr. Thorpe,” Mills began.
“Yes?” Thorpe leaned a little forward over the rail of the witness box, staring down at Mills below him.
“Thank you for sparing us your time,” Mills said flatly. “I don’t think I can ask you to add to what you have said. Your loyalty does you credit.”
It was sarcastic. It was also a tactical error.
“It is not loyalty!” Thorpe said furiously. “I loathe the man! But personal feelings did not alter my judgment that he is an excellent and dedicated surgeon, and a man of high moral character. Otherwise I would not have kept him in the hospital.” He did not have to add that if he could have found an excuse to dismiss him he would have taken it; it was only too unpleasantly evident in his furious bright eyes and snarling mouth.
“Thank you,” Mills murmured, returning to his seat. “I have no further questions, my lord.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“What did you learn from the Father?” Ferdi asked Monk eagerly on the following morning as they sat over coffee in one of the numerous cafés. Vienna served more kinds of coffee than Monk knew existed, with or without chocolate added, with or without cream, sometimes whipped cream, or hot milk, or laced with rum. This morning the wind scythed in from the Hungarian plains, touching his skin like a knife, and Monk felt an even deeper coldness inside him. He had ordered coffee with chocolate and thick cream for both of them.
Ferdi was waiting for an answer. Monk had wrestled long into the night, much of it when he should have been asleep, worrying how much to tell the boy of the truth he was now certain of, even though he had no proof and no one who would testify. Did it really have anything to do with Elissa’s death?
“Mr. Monk?” Ferdi prompted, putting down his coffee and staring across the table.
He needed Ferdi’s help. “He didn’t exactly tell me,” Monk answered slowly. “He knew many things about the time, the people, but some of them were told to him under the seal of the confessional.”
“So you learned nothing?” Ferdi said, his young face filling with disappointment. “I . . . I was sure you had discovered something terrible. You seem . . . different, as if all kinds of things had changed . . . feelings . . .” He stopped, confused and a little embarrassed that he had intruded on inner pain without thinking.
Monk smiled very slightly and stared at the cream slowly melting into his coffee. “You can guess this much from my face, and my manner?”
Ferdi hesitated. “Well . . . I thought I could.”
“You can,” Monk agreed. “And if I did not deny it, and you asked me questions, made good guesses as to what it was I know, would you say that I had told you anything?” He looked up and met Ferdi’s eyes.
“Oh!” Ferdi’s face filled with understanding. “You mean the Father couldn’t tell you, but you know from his manner, his feelings, that you were right. I see.” His eyes clouded. “And what was it? It was hard, wasn’t it? Something terrible